Reminiscence
by turtledoves
Summary: "The mast of a boat, a silver parachute, Mags laughing, a pink sky, Beetee's trident, Annie in her wedding dress, waves breaking over rocks." /The stories behind each image Katniss saw as Finnick died. A collection of seven drabbles; one for each memory.
1. the mast of a boat

**a/n [**_I've had this idea for a while. I wanted for this one-shot to go in chronological order and in the order mentioned in Mockingjay, too, and it almost worked except for the very last one—waves breaking over rocks—because there wasn't a time Finnick could have witnessed that after the 75__th__ Games. So, I changed the order mentioned in the below quote so it would work in chronological order. That's all :)_**]**

"The mast of a boat, a silver parachute, Mags laughing, a pink sky, Beetee's trident, Annie in her wedding dress, waves breaking over rocks."  
—Mockingjay (p. 313)

**_i. the mast of a boat_**

The grass on top of the lonely hill was still wet with the morning dew when Finnick sat down. He sat in the middle of the large expanse of green, not quite on top of the hill, but still high enough up to see the ocean spread out on three sides, spreading until it disappeared completely out of his view. He watched the horizon and the blooming sun for almost three minutes before leaning back and collapsing onto the soft ground. A long sigh escaped his lips.

"Cut that out," Eitan scolded. "It's depressing."

Finnick turned to his elder friend and blinked at him. "It is depressing," he said.

"I meant," Eitan said, nudging Finnick with his foot, "that you're being depressing. And it's depressing me."

"Nice to know you care." Finnick looked up at the sky, squinting against the harsh light.

"Seriously, man, get up."

"There's no point in getting up."

"Get up before I make you get up."

"You're both idiots," Haile said, before Finnick could think of a comeback. "Finnick, stand."

There was something in her voice that made Finnick get to his feet. It had nothing to do with the fact that he thought she was pretty.

"It's been three days," Finnick said. He was making an excuse and he knew it. Once, his father was gone for five.

"Come on, watch the water with me." She patted the rocky ground next to her; a storm had once taken a slice from the side of the hill facing the ocean, which was where Haile was sitting now.

Finnick sat down, but didn't look at the water. He'd last seen his father on the water, waving goodbye as his boat left the dock. As soon as his father turned around to assist the rest of the crew, Finnick turned around and walked back down the shaky dock to his house. He didn't look back once; he didn't see why he should've. His father left all the time.

Haile's hand pushed at his head, and Finnick swatted her away, a faint smile on his face. "What?" he asked.

"You think too much."

"Do not."

"Yeah, you do," Eitan chimed in.

"See?" Haile laughed.

"I need better friends," Finnick mumbled.

"Shut up," Haile said, pushing his head to the side again. "I'm getting there."

"Getting where?"

"Man, I was just about to ask that same thing."

Haile ignored both of them, waiting for their banter to slowly fade out before continuing. When they fell silent, she used the opportunity to point at the ocean. "See? There."

Finnick leaned forward, causing a few stray rocks to roll down to the shore. "I don't see anything."

"Me neither," Eitan agreed.

"There's a ship. One of the Peacekeeper's."

Both of the boys leaned forward a bit farther, squinting their eyes. "Is there a point to this?" Eitan asked.

"And there. See?" Haile answered by moving her hand, pointing to a new location. "I think it's one of ours."

"You're just messing with us."

"No, I see it," Finnick said. "The sails are down."

"Right!" Haile grinned, and then frantically looked for another one.

Finnick found one first. He pointed. "There. A fishing boat. They're coming in late."

He smiled, watching it move through the water. From up on the hill, not even that high up but still very far away, the boat seemed to moving slowly. He couldn't even see the trails of waves the motor must have been leaving, but knew they were there all the same. From his vantage point, most of the ocean looked tranquil and dark, except for the small waves that broke on the shore closest to him.

As he looked around, he found more boats. There weren't many, a result of being out there so early, but with each one he found he was reassured. Not one boat was alone out there. Not even his father's.

"Hey, look, I found one!" Eitan exclaimed.

Finnick looked to where his friend was pointing, somewhere close to the edge of his view. He knew that the line of Peacekeeper patrols was around that point, so he figured that Eitan had just found another on the border.

When his eyes found the boat though, it didn't appear to be one of the light grey patrol ships he was used to. It was darker, and its sails weren't up; the Peacekeepers usually kept theirs up to make themselves more visible. Finnick recognized it immediately.

"That's my dad," he said, standing up to get a better view.

"How can you tell? I can barely see it," Haile said, disbelief in her voice.

Finnick could tell because he'd practically grown up on that boat; he was almost born on it. From his bedroom window at home, there was an obscure view of it, sitting at the dock unattended. He could identify that boat from the tip of the mast miles away.

"I just know," he answered.

"You're welcome." Eitan grinned. Haile flicked him in the head.

Finnick watched as blank sails rose up the naked mast, and raced home to be there when his father came walking up to the door.


	2. a silver parachute

**_ii. a silver parachute_**

By now, Finnick was used to the soft ping of crafted metal hitting the harsh rocks. He looked up at the sky briefly, grabbing for the parachute and its load blindly. The sun was hanging kind of low to his left, about an hour from sundown, which meant it was around dinnertime. Mags never failed to disappoint. He let himself smile for a second before tearing into the package.

His gift was simple: an ounce of salmon, a cup of tomato soup, and a small portion of plain bread. It was way more than he could've ever hoped for, yet he still felt empty at the sight of it, wishing foolishly for more. There really wasn't anymore he needed, though. Every morning, just after he woke up, Mags presented him a parachute filled with more bread and an egg, boiled. Then, midday, when he stopped to rest, there was a flash of silver in the sky, and a container full of water was presented to him, ready to be poured into the water bottle kept in his belt.

Finnick knew that with his fortune, he was already destined to win. He would have everything. So why did something inside him ache for more?

He reached for his bread first, taking two bites from it before using it to dip in his soup. He ate slowly. It was the strangest thought in the world, but there, in the arena, he felt secure inattentive on the ground with his only belongings, which were equivalent to gold in the Hunger Games, strewn around him on the ground. If he was overconfident before volunteering, he didn't know what word would be strong enough to describe him now.

The other Careers had noticed his ego right away. It was the only reason they didn't kill him when they should've; they were humoring him, or themselves. And there was the bonus of free food for them as long as they stayed with him. Finnick relished in the attention they had given him.

He swallowed the last bite of salmon and closed his eyes. It tasted like home; he felt like he was already there. He could almost hear Eitan complaining in the distance.

It had been six hours since Finnick had last spoken to anyone and the long for interaction was eating at him. Under any other circumstance, he might've preferred the silence for a while, but in the arena, he just wanted to talk to someone. To know that someone else was there with him.

When was the last time he laughed?

He could actually hear Eitan this time, telling him to just stop thinking so much.

"It's not that easy," he muttered.

_And now you're talking to yourself_, his friend chastised.

_Shut up_, Finnick thought, bringing his head into his hands. He was a mess.

At least, with the distraction of his friend, no matter how bad it probably was to be imagining someone's voice, he didn't have to think anymore.

So when Eitan's voice faded from Finnick's mind, he busied his hands in cleaning up his area. He didn't really have much; there were some crackers, three knives, a flashlight, and two coils of rope. He left his spear lying haphazardly at his side. The containers from the parachute were stacked neatly at his side; he wouldn't take them with him.

The anthem started playing two hours later, and Finnick loved the sound of it. It was human. He didn't, however, look up. He already knew who the first three casualties would be.

Once he deemed it safe, he looked up, hoping to see who else would appear in the sky. There was one: the female tribute from Five. He didn't know her name.

As the sound of the anthem cut off, Finnick heard the water splash behind him. He stood up and turned, eyeing the swamp carefully. It was silent. Then, he heard the familiar ping of a parachute hitting the ground. Without a second thought, Finnick tore his eyes off the murky water and scrambled for his gift. It was larger than the others, and heavier, too. He opened it cautiously.

There was another splash behind him, a little bit closer.

_Oh, Mags_, Finnick thought, his hand gripping the shaft of the trident. _You've outdone yourself._


	3. mags laughing

_**iii. mags laughing**_

The morning was cold when Finnick woke up. His eyes cracked open, then shut again at the sudden light. Slowly, he rolled over to his stomach, taking the quilt with him, and just lied there. No one was around to tell him to get up.

Except Mags. She woke up before the crack of dawn every day, and had been trying to get Finnick to do the same for four months until she gave up. He could remember that day well; Mags complained about how in all her years she'd never met someone so indolent, and she gave up. Two hours later, when Finnick plodded down the stairs, he found Mags knitting, sitting in the recliner she had claimed as her own a while ago. He sat on the last step and watched her, wondering how she had the patience to repeat the same motions over and over again hours on end whereas he could barely wake up each morning. When her fingers stopped moving, she looked over at him, exasperated. He asked her what indolent meant.

Five months later, Finnick turned around again to his back, blinking blearily at the ceiling. There was no way he'd be able to fall back asleep again. So, he got up, stumbling as he walked to the bathroom, still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

"Morning," Mags greeted, once he'd reached the bottom of the stairs. She was knitting, as usual. Her yarn was blue.

"Morning," Finnick replied. He walked into the kitchen, cringing slightly at the cold tile floor against his bare feet. A piece of toast was already waiting for him on a plate. He took the bread, not it's platter, and reentered the living room. Mags didn't even look up at him.

He was used to her presence. Even though she'd given up on waking him up early, she still made it her goal to liven up the house.

They sat in silence. Mags was knitting. Finnick was thinking of ways to not think.

Mags put her knitting needles down half an hour later with a satisfying clunk. Finnick turned away from the spot on the wall he'd been studying, looking at her expectantly. She held up a pair of socks, one in each hand, before balling them up and throwing them at him.

"Happy birthday," she said in explanation.

"Aw, Mags, you shouldn't have," he said with a teasing smile, rubbing the soft fabric between his fingers and wondering how happy the occasion really was. He was a year older, and so many other people weren't.

"Don't I know it. I'm wasting all my good yarn on you."

"I'm honored."

She pointed a knitting needle at him threateningly. "Now listen to me—"

"Sorry, what did you say?"

The needle came flying at him, and he brought his hands up to block it. A laugh escaped him. It was easy to be happy around Mags.

"Fine. I won't bake you a cake then."

Finnick stopped laughing immediately. Eyeing her to gauge the seriousness of her threat. In the total two and a half years he'd known her, she always baked a cake. For his birthday, for his family's birthdays, and even for her own birthday. She loved making them almost as much as she loved knitting.

"I'm listening," he said.

"I was thinking maybe you'd like to help me this year."

"Yeah."

Finnick mulled it over. He was terrible at cooking; somehow the house always ended up smelling like smoke.

"I'll let you eat some of the batter," she bribed.

"When do we start?" he said, grinning.

She laughed. A short, two syllable laugh that made her face crinkle up. Finnick loved it.

"Patience," she said. "I'd like to go outside first."

"Race you?"

Mags grinned. "You're on."

But really, Finnick ended up walking steadily with Mags on his elbow down the short hallway to the back porch, where they sat on the porch swing, and Mags told stories about her childhood friends. It made Finnick feel somewhat like a child, coddled and safe listening to a mother's voice. He'd give anything to hear his mother speak one more time.

Mags ended her fifth or so story—about the time when a friend of hers wanted to collect sand instead of seashells—an hour later and fell silent, looking at the horizon. Finnick looked, too, trying to see what she saw.

"Isn't it beautiful?" Mags asked.

"It's the ocean," Finnick answered. Because it was just that. Nothing special about it.

Mags sighed softly, and Finnick turned to look at her. "I suppose it is. How about we get started on that cake?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

Mags laughed, patting his knee. "Lead the way."


	4. a pink sky

**a/n [**_Each one of these is shorter than the last, and I don't know what I'm doing wrong. Oh, well, these are drabbles anyway. Also, this is the first out of two (and a half? three-quarters, maybe?) Odesta chapters. I'm rather proud of it._**]**

_**iv. a pink sky**_

Some nights, Finnick watched the sunset from his balcony. He sat with his back against the side, the hard edges of the balustrade pushing against him. His head would be turned to the right—or the west, in this case—toward the ocean and away from the billowing curtains behind him. With his feet stretched out in front of him, he took up about half of the balcony's length.

On that night, someone else sat on the other half. His feet touched hers from toe to heel, and even though it was only because he scooted forward a couple inches, he couldn't help but feel like they were meant to sit there, like that.

Unlike usual, he didn't look to the right. He stared straight ahead, enjoying watching Annie instead of the sky. Her head was turned to the right—her left—and her nose was between two of the bars. Her hair covered most of her face as it fluttered in the same breeze that moved the clouds.

He watched as she turned her head to the left—her right—and studied the curtains that moved like her hair. Finnick smiled and wished that he could see what she saw. He lightly pushed his foot against hers, and then they were both staring forward.

"What?" she asked. Her cheeks were already turning pink.

"You're beautiful," he said.

She turned her head away from him, back to the sky. "Finnick," she rebuked.

He finally tore his eyes from her and looked at the sky; it was tinged orange in preparation for the sunset. As he watched, the sun seemed to stay suspended in place, not dropping further into the depths of the sky.

Finnick curled his toes over hers, and she pulled away. She rested her chin on her knees, still not looking at him, and wrapped her thin arms around her legs. Finnick sighed, but he didn't blame Annie. He wouldn't want to be near him either.

The sun, now unwatched, dipped lower in the sky, and washed everything in a faint pink light.

"You don't, really," Annie said, her eyes still on the horizon.

"I don't what?" asked Finnick, still focused on Annie.

"Think I'm beautiful," she answered. Her head swiveled to him, and she met his eyes evenly, daringly, almost, but still uneasy. She thought she was right, but she was afraid that she was.

"I do, really," he said, not quite sure what to make of her accusation.

Slowly, she stretched her feet back out to meet his. She didn't turn back to the sunset, but she did drop her gaze.

"The sky is beautiful," she said. "I'm Annie."

The sun had turned the light blue sky to a deep pink and the stringy clouds to red.

"It'll be a great day on the water tomorrow," Finnick agreed, reading the horizon as he'd been taught to. "And, for the record, I think Annie is beautiful-er than the sky."

Annie smiled, her cheeks matching sky, and laughed. Finnick rarely heard her laugh, and he treasured the sound. "More beautiful," she corrected.

"So you agree?" He grinned.

She shook her head, her smile faint but still there. "No."

She nudged her foot against Finnick's, and he nudged her back with a wordless protest. She shook her head again and turned back to the setting sun. Finnick turned his head, too, and they watched the ocean swallow the sun together. They stayed like that, resting on the balcony with their feet occasionally pushing against each others', their heads turned to the left—her right—until the leftover light disappeared completely.

Finnick stole a few more moments before standing up and offering a hand to Annie. She took it.

"I'll walk you home?" he said, letting her hand go one finger at a time.

She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. "Thank you."


	5. waves breaking over rocks

_**v. waves breaking over rocks**_

He was feeling a million things at once, and it was making his head hurt; it had been a long day. Less than twenty-four hours ago, he was dressed in a thin wet suit and forced up into another arena. Too much had happened since then.

There was too much he didn't want to think about.

The tears forming in his eyes were the result of thinking.

Finnick stood up, unable to keep still, and grabbed the knife and spile. He picked the tree closest to where Katniss and Peeta lied sleeping and scraped at the trunk with the knife, not really trying to cut through.

His mind was jumping around from thought to thought, person to person. From Mags to Katniss to Johanna to Haymitch to Peeta to Plutarch to Beetee to Mags to Annie. He hoped, for the first time, that she was locked inside her mind. Anything was better than her watching the Games. He knew, though, that she was sitting on the floor in front of the television with her hands curled into fists, nails biting into her skin.

The tears fell freely now.

He took the knife from the tree and moved on to a different task. He reached up, pulling at leaves straight and long enough for his task. There were about a hundred in his hands when he moved back to his spot on the sand. The spile and knife were left forgotten by the tree.

He weaved baskets, and every thought left his head. There was only focus on tying and twisting and bending bright green leaves. The water lapped at the shore. All was calm.

There were three baskets and a mat—which he propped up on sticks above his allies for shade—in the end. His hands lied limp in his lap without anything to do.

Katniss and Peeta were still asleep; Finnick didn't know how much time has passed. The sky was still dark. The forest still seemed alive.

So, he picked up his trident.

The water was home. The gentle waves pushing against his skin, the soft sand moving under his feet. If he closed his eyes, he could forget where he was.

But his eyes were open so he could spot the dark shape of something moving beside him in the shallows. The force of bringing the tip of his trident into the body of a smaller creature doesn't feel as much like home as it used to.

Dawn was breaking when he returned to their makeshift camp by the tree line. Katniss was fidgeting in her sleep. Mags wasn't there. Finnick dropped his basket of shellfish and picked up the spile and knife, once again, by the tree.

He was still in a dream like state. His head still hurt a little.

With water split into two baskets, he sat back in his spot with nothing to do. He watched the lake. The water rippled, but it was mostly still. How long ago was it that the giant wave had crashed into the sand, sending water scurrying in every direction, breaking over the rock ledges that protruded from the Cornucopia's island?

How long ago was it that Haymitch forced him to give up his token for a golden Capitol bracelet?

There was a rustle, and Katniss woke. Finnick reached for his basket of shellfish, feeling around in the sand for a rock to aid him in cracking them over. He composed himself, ran a hand through his hair, and smiled.

"They're better fresh," he greeted Katniss, popping one in his mouth, pretending nothing was wrong; he was fine. He tried not to cry.


	6. beetee's trident

_**vi. beetee's trident**_

Finnick wandered the halls aimlessly, which was mainly because he was lost, but also because he had forgotten where he was going in the first place. There was no one around for him to ask for help even if he knew what to ask.

Somehow, his mind must have had some semblance of an idea on where to go. Finnick wound up in an elevator going down, down, down. When the elevator stopped and the doors slid open, he wondered how far underground he was.

The floor beyond the elevator was a maze of hallways and locked doors.

As he walked, he wished Annie were next to him, her hand in his, warm, safe. Her footsteps would match his, and they'd sound twice as loud. She'd say something, maybe, to pass the time as they walked or to speak her thought before it was gone, and Finnick would smile, softly, just for her.

"Finnick?" someone said. The voice brought Finnick back to reality, and suddenly he felt alone in the hallway. The voice said his name again.

"Yes?" Finnick replied. The voice was speaking to him, right?

"What are you doing down here?"

"I'm looking for Beetee," he said, remembering why he came. He glanced up, curious to see whom he was speaking to. Oh. "I guess I found you."

Beetee smiled and brought his hands off the wheels of his wheelchair to beckon Finnick forward. "Yes, come."

Finnick walked, and Beetee, well, rolled. They were side by side. Finnick ran a hand through his hair.

"I assume you've come for your trident?" Beetee said.

Finnick blinked. Yes, that was it, wasn't it? Beetee made him a trident, and it was probably the best weapon to ever be created by human kind. Finnick smiled and nodded his head, not thinking of whether Beetee saw the gesture or not.

Beetee brought them through security, and Finnick let the guards handprint him and scan his eyes. He was only thinking about his new trident and what it would look like.

It was, he discovered shortly after, black. And light. And magnetic, probably.

Well, Finnick wasn't sure how the last part worked. Beetee handed him a bracelet, which was made out of whatever the trident was. There was one button on it, sleek and round, and when he pressed it, his trident flew back into his grasp. (But, as he was told, it would only work in a twenty-yard radius.)

Another button made the tips of the trident turn red with heat.

And the third, the last, let the trident release poison upon impact.

Finnick held the weapon in his hands, then tossed it gently from right to left. It felt as if it was meant for him to wield. Which it was, in fact.

"Thank you," he said.

"Of course," Beetee said in response.

At some point, someone had set up targets. Or maybe they were there when he walked in. Finnick twisted the weapon in his hand, gripping it more precisely. It felt alive in his hands.

The trident hit the dead center of the target, and Finnick wasn't surprised. He was elated. Nothing had felt so right, worked out so well for him, in weeks. Maybe months. He kept forgetting to ask how much time had passed since the Games ended.

He stepped forward, to retrieve his weapon, when he remembered the bracelet. He lifted his hand to his wrist and traced the button in circles, almost scared that it wouldn't work. But Beetee had designed this. Of course it would. His finger pressed down, and the trident seemed to move a little bit from its place in the target before it came free and flew through the air. It was in his hands in an instant, easily, having slowed in midair moments before connecting with his hand.

Finnick could imagine killing Snow with this.

And he smiled.


	7. annie in her wedding dress

**a/n [**And this is the last chapter! (Also the shortest, sorry.) All of you guys who read and reviewed were awesome. Thank you (:**]**

_**vii. annie in her wedding dress**_

He'd been awake for hours, but it all still felt like a dream.

Standing on the stage meant for announcements, he tugged down the sleeve of his altered suit. There were about five hundred people in the audience, all chatting under their breaths, sitting in fold out chairs. The few people of them he did know were seated in the front row, and he couldn't decide whether to look at them for reassurance or keep his eyes on doors in the back.

Finnick wasn't nervous. Really.

Unless he thought about it.

Five hundred eyes would be on him and Annie, which was incredibly overwhelming. And what if he messed something up? He knew the ceremony backwards and upside down, he'd seen it dozens of times back home; weddings were events for the whole town. But he never imagined what it would be like to stand in front of everyone at his own.

His eyes stayed on the double doors. The choir started to sing.

Earlier that week, a group of children were chosen to sing the wedding song. It was Finnick and Annie's responsibility to teach the song to them, and teach them the technicalities. By the end, they knew they were meant to sing first seconds before the bride entered the room.

Finnick waited for the doors to open.

Once they did, they parted much too slowly for his liking.

And then Annie was there, looking slightly stunned for a moment with her lips parted as her eyes darted around the room, over the heads of the audience. Finnick smiled immediately, forgetting about everyone watching them, and in the seconds it took her eyes to reach his, his cheeks started to ache.

Marrying Annie was never something Finnick considered. Yet here they were, in the middle of a war, and she was at the end of an aisle that was too long. He just wanted her to be in his arms already.

He wondered if she knew how beautiful she was. She was always beautiful, especially when her hair was mussed by the wind, or when she was working in the garden under the hot sun, or when she wore his shirt to sleep in. But she was also beautiful with her hair swept back and her skin polished and in a dress the exact color of her eyes.

And he loved her more than anything. He hoped she knew that by now.

When she walked up the few stairs to the stage, and the children stopped singing, Finnick reached for her hands, intertwining his fingers with hers. The wait to kiss her seemed impossible, but he would last if it meant they'd be together always.


End file.
